


Directional Stability

by MachaSWicket



Series: Waypoints [1]
Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Gen, Movie Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:53:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  <i>Directional stability</i> – the tendency of an aircraft to keep flying the direction it's pointed. </p><p>SPOILER WARNING:  This story was posted before the movie premiered, and is pretty much based on a SPOILER for the movie that was NOT in the trailers or any publicly released materials.  Please DO NOT READ if you are avoiding spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Directional Stability

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: They're not mine, but I promise to give them back to Rob Thomas in near-perfect condition.
> 
> THANKS: To Kate for sharing such a delightful spoiler! And, you know, reading and encouraging. :)
> 
> Huge thanks to [lilamadison11](http://lilamadison11.tumblr.com/) for the gorgeous art!

It wasn't quite the same as flying remote control planes on a beach, but standing on the hot tarmac, watching a squadron of fighter planes -- planes that he'd had a hand in designing -- fly over in formation, well, damn, that might just be better. Wallace beamed at the Growlers roaring overhead. For _sure_ it was cooler.

Which was probably more than he could say for most of the guys on the flightline with him. A few hundred of Wallace's colleagues were there, dressed for their engineering offices, ID badges flipping around in the wind. In their typical surroundings -- boring beige and glass interiors and cramped conference rooms -- the mechanical and aerospace engineers blended right in. But out at the factory -- out on the flightline, waiting on some Navy flyboys? _Nerds_ , Wallace thought. _We look like a bunch of nerds out here_.

Wallace shook his head. Man, all this time with the khaki-and-crew-cut set was seriously affecting his game.

The jet engines grew louder again, and Wallace turned his attention back to the sky, squinting even behind his sunglasses. Cloudless skies like these were perfect for watching airshows, but he always managed to blind himself by looking straight at the sun once or twice. Today was no exception, and he cursed and turned his head, blinking the starbursts away. Didn't even need to look, though, to trace their flight.

Five jets, no more than a thousand feet above the ground, nearly wingtip to wingtip as they screamed past. The engines were so loud you didn't hear them so much as feel the vibrations wrap themselves around your ribcage and shake your whole body. "Yeah!" he shouted, even though not a single person could hear him over the noise.

Bouncing with adrenaline, Wallace leaned closer to his friend, Noelle, and all but yelled into her ear, "What's that sound?"

Noelle laughed and flashed devil's horns with both hands. "The sound of freedom!" she answered, quoting a pretty terrible announcer at the air show last summer, who'd yelled corny shit like that over some truly terrible patriotic rock music. As far as Wallace was concerned, the _last_ thing an air show needed was extraneous sound -- just let those engines sing.

Wallace looked back up at the sky, watching the Growlers shrink into the distance, just dark shapes with dual stabilizers above dark engines just barely glowing orange. The plane on the far edge of the formation peeled right, starting the landing maneuver. Guess he couldn't really expect a full Blue Angels-level show from pilots just back from seeing action.

He dug out his iPhone and opened the text program, typing " _private fighter jet flyover, easily 200 points_ " and hitting send.

Veronica would probably send him another pic from courtside seats at the Knicks. Which, yeah, was worth _way_ more than these jets. Big shot lawyers in New York got a lot more perks than mid-level mechanical engineers in Seattle. But at least he'd jump back ahead of Mac.

Noelle and some of his other colleagues drifted forward, watching the pilots bring the jets back to earth in their precise, controlled fashion. Wallace hung back, watching the last plane drift closer. Damn, those planes were dead sexy. Maybe he should've been a pilot -- fly the things instead of build 'em.

He tugged a bit on his t-shirt. The airstrip was hot on days like this -- no shade, and all this heat radiating off the tarmac. He was half-convinced the soles of his shoes were melting into the asphalt. Wallace broke into a jog to catch up with the rest of his team as they headed back to the hangar, listening to the engines whine as the Growlers taxied closer.

The official reason the engineering wonks were invited to all this was so the flyboys could thank the whole company for building them a squadron of airworthy EA-18G Electronic Attack Aircraft. But really the company wanted pictures of these pilots in their flight suits touring the factory floor to use in a press release. Self-congratulatory events weren't really Wallace's thing, and he wouldn't have walked over in this heat just for a couple of speeches, but he never could turn down the opportunity to see fighter planes up close. And these particular Growlers were the first deployed into combat, flying sortis from an aircraft carrier to help enforce the no-fly over Libya. Hence the photo-op.

Wallace caught up to Noelle as they entered the hangar, where it was shady, but even hotter than the airstrip. He hadn't thought that was possible. Probably they weren't supposed to hit up the refreshment table before the speeches, but considering he could feel a couple beads of sweat trickling down his back, it sure was tempting. He was pretty sure he saw a cheese and crackers spread, too. No way to get there to check, though – hundreds of workers from the factory floor were already there, taking up most of the space in front of the platform set up along one wall.

Wallace made his way over to Noelle, keeping to the edge of the crowed so he could see the planes as they were chocked and blocked and powered down just outside the hangar. The last time Wallace had been to the airstrip was nearly two years earlier, when the Growlers rolled out of production and into the world sporting bright red tails and the company logo. The planes looked very different now that they'd been operational -- dark grey military codes and markings on a lighter, matte grey fuselage. No missiles today, though.

Noelle exhaled. "Promise you won't let them leave me here when I melt into a puddle of goo."

Finally, the pilots swaggered in and climbed up on the little makeshift stage to take their places, standing in a crisp line, hands clasped behind their backs. Wallace's attention caught on the smallest figure -- a _feminine_ figure -- to the right. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but some of it had fallen loose, and she reached up to brush it behind her ear.

Lady fighter pilots. Well, hot damn.

Wallace's boss' boss finished the welcome speech -- pride of the company and all that -- and introduced the Navy commander. The commander stepped to the lectern and addressed the gathered employees. "My name is Commander Derek Bamford, and I can't tell you how happy we are to be visiting you today. I'd like to start by introducing the Aviators and Flight Officers of the VAQ-142 Bobcats." 

The commander gestured to his right and started to name the squadron members. Wallace's attention perked right up. So, Lieutenant Maria Arias, huh? He wondered where she was stationed, because he was pretty sure any woman who made it to fighter pilot in the Navy would have to be pretty badass. Wonder what her call sign--

"Lieutenant J.G. Logan Echolls, and Lieutenant J.G. Freddy Gonzalez," Commander Bamford continued.

Wallace whipped his attention back to the commander, giving his head a little shake, because he could've sworn the commander just called one of those flyboys Logan Echolls. Wallace edged forward -- the guys looked pretty much the same in their olive drab flightsuits and their military haircuts. He must have misheard. Or maybe there really _was_ another Logan Echolls. He'd have to be sure to tell Veronica, she'd--

Holy shit.

Wallace stared at Logan Echolls, dressed in an olive drab flight suit, with colorful patches across his chest, standing quietly at attention on the far side of the stage. If you looked hard enough at him, and imagined the smirk and the simple arrogance he used to wear like a badge of honor, he was only just recognizable as the same person.

The commander thanked the company for building them state of the art aircraft, and showing American ingenuity, and all of that. Probably Wallace should enjoy this, savor the kudos from the theatre of operations, but he just couldn't stop staring at Logan. Weird, new Logan, who was calmly watching his commander speak, chin up, stock still -- no bouncing, no eye rolling, no disrespectful hand gestures.

It was _beyond_ weird.

Wallace's cell buzzed in his pocket. He figured it'd be rude to drag it out and check the texts while the commander was still speaking, and shoved his hands in his pockets to thumb it off. He bounced a little impatiently, until Noelle elbowed him and whispered, “Quit it.”

“Sorry,” he answered. Crossed his arms and made himself stop staring at this guy he knew, but didn't really know, and probably didn't like. 

The commander wrapped up his brief speech, thanking them all again for their work on the Growlers, and for the opportunity to tour the facility. That part, Wallace wasn't actually invited to, and hadn't intended to crash. The engineering types were supposed to take off now, maybe after a quick stop a the refreshment table, but he found himself pushing through the crowd toward the stage, trying to catch the pilots – trying to catch Logan.

The VPs and other company bigwigs had formed inadvertent roadblocks as they surrounded the commander just in front of the stage, forcing everyone else to go around. Wallace cut through at right angles to almost everyone else, offering a string of “Excuse me” and “Sorry” and so forth. 

Momentarily distracted by the lovely Lieutenant Arias, Wallace paused and gave her a little nod. “Ma'am.” She came close to smiling, he could tell, and Wallace moved aside to let her slip past. “Thank you for your service.”

Lieutenant Arias looked back at him over her shoulder, “My pleasure.” 

Wallace watched her go, and when he turned back toward the stage, he realized he'd lost track of Logan. “Shit.” 

He leaned a bit to the left to look past a particularly tall guy blocking his view. There. Winding his way through the crowd, maybe fifteen feet away. “Logan!”

Logan stopped, brow furrowing slightly, and looked in his direction. Wallace moved around two of his colleagues to reach Logan, and then stopped short, realizing a little bit late into all of this that he actually didn't know what to say. “Uh, hi.” They'd never really been friends, only spending time together because of Veronica. And Wallace was pretty sure the last conversation he'd had with Logan involved suggesting some more appropriate ways that Logan could take out his aggressions. That discussion hadn't ended well, which Wallace probably should've considered before running over to say hi.

Clearly stunned, Logan stared back at him for a long moment, eyebrows raised. “Wallace,” he said finally. “Wow. You're...” he shrugged, then swept one hand to the side, indicating the hangar. “Here.” Wallace flicked the ID badge clipped to his pocket, and Logan said, “Ah.” 

“Yeah,” Wallace answered lamely. 

They stared at each other, and it was more than a little awkward. The man standing in front of Wallace was, you know, a _man_. Not the poor little rich boy from high school and college. But Wallace supposed the Navy would do that to a guy. _Should_ do that to a guy. Wallace gestured vaguely toward the flightline. “We built your planes. Because you... fly planes now?” He hadn't meant for it to come out a question, but Wallace was still uncharacteristically tongue-tied. 

That seemed to jar Logan out of his apparent astonishment. He smirked a bit and snapped his heels together. “Lieutenant Echolls, at your service.”

“At my service,” Wallace said, brightening. “Does that mean you can get me a ride-along in one of those?”

Logan laughed for real this time, and maybe the irritating jackass Wallace remembered was still in there somewhere. Logan leaned in, dropping his voice, “They don't usually let us take 'em out for joyrides, but if you wait until after Pa falls asleep--”

“Hey, Divot.”

Logan straightened immediately and turned to address Commander Bamford. “Sir.” He gestured to Wallace. “Just bumped into an old friend. Sir, this is Wallace Fennell. Wallace, Commander Bamford.”

“How you doing?” Wallace shook the commander's hand. 

“Nice to meet you,” the commander said, then hooked a thumb at Logan. “So you know Divot, huh?”

“Divot?” Wallace repeated, pretty confident that he'd misheard.

Logan lifted his index finger. “My call sign.”

“Ah.” Wallace realized the commander was still watching him expectantly. He couldn't come up with a good way to paraphrase _Well, he had a melodramatic on-again, off-again thing with my best friend, but we kinda lost touch after he beat the piss out of my roommate_ , so he just nodded. “Yeah. High school. Little bit of college.”

Commander Bamford snorted. “You must have some stories.” He gave Logan a speculative look, then lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Sorry to cut the reunion short, but--”

“The factory tour,” Logan said. “Sure.” The commander nodded once and strode away.

“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead,” Wallace told Logan. “I was just trying to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.”

The edge of Logan's mouth quirked up. “Understandable.”

Wallace considered for a second, then offered, “If you guys are staying over, give me a call. We could catch up.” 

Definitely that surprised Logan. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then said, “That would be--” he stopped, cocked his head to the side. “Really pretty strange, right?”

Grinning, Wallace agreed, “Definitely strange.”

“Well, then, I'm in.” Logan patted his chest, then dug a small notebook and a stubby pencil. Off of Wallace's curious look, Logan tapped the pencil on the pad twice. “So we can hide secret messages under rocks if we get shot down in scary places.” He scrawled something, tore the sheet free, and handed it to Wallace. “It's a date.” With a sarcastic half-bow, Logan turned and caught up with the rest of his squadron.

Wallace dug out his phone so he could add Logan's number. The text message indicator was on, and he unlocked the screen. A picture of Veronica, vamping ridiculously into the camera, popped up. Wallace laughed and read the accompanying text, " _Fighter pilots? Pick me up a flyboy while they're available!_ "

“If you only knew, Supafly,” he said, wondering exactly how many points this particularly flyboy would be worth, and then added Logan to his contacts. 

* * * * * 

“This is stupid,” Logan told his reflection. Which he knew, of course, but it never hurt to reinforce things by saying them out loud to your reflection. He was _sure_ he could find a psychologist willing to agree.

He tugged at his henley, dissatisfied. Overnight trips with the squadron were pretty rare, and didn't usually involve a weird man-date with the best friend of your long-lost ex-girlfriend. He definitely hadn't packed for this eventuality, and now he was worried that he looked – stupid. And he'd figured four years spending more hours in standard issue flight suits and uniforms had cured him of his vanity. 

Well. _Some_ of his vanity. He did still like to look good in his flight suit.

Logan leaned closer to the mirror, eyeing a suspicious dark-ish spot near the shoulder seam. Not that he thought Wallace would care -- or even _notice_ \-- that Logan's shirt was maybe a little bit stained. But Wallace might mention that to Veronica--

“Stop it.” Logan ran his hand over his hair, grabbed his wallet, and left the hotel room. He hadn't felt this much like a dumb teenager in years. (Though, to be fair, he hadn't felt like a _dumb_ teenager even when he was a teenager. Abandoned and unlovable and undeserving, sure, but never _dumb_.) 

Gonzo and Axe were in the hotel bar, as he suspected they would be. Axe noticed him and lifted his glass. “Divot!”

Logan gave them a little wave without breaking stride. “Boys.”

“Oh, so that's how it is.” Axe gave Gonzo a look. “He must have a hot date.”

“Not exactly,” Logan answered, pausing just inside the archway. “More like a chance to revisit my misspent youth. Perhaps with a _soupcon_ of scolding.” 

“Sounds fun,” Gonzo said, spinning his bottle of beer in small circles on the table. “Should we wait up?”

Laughing, Logan headed for the front entrance. Might have been easier to just have Wallace meet him and the guys here, but he was pretty sure that would turn into a night of Gonzo, Axe, and Wallace trading stories about his finest moments in jackassery. (As Veronica would have called it.) Not real high on his to-do list. 

His cab was waiting -- and this was Seattle so of course it was a Prius. Logan folded himself into the backseat and told the driver the name of the pub. He pulled out his phone and checked for texts. Nothing. Sure, that's fine. He'd just pass the ride either obsessing over what he and his ex-girlfriend's friend could possible talk about, or obsessing over whether Wallace would tell him anything about Veronica. Great.

Logan shifted a little, his knees banging against the back of the passenger seat. The ride was pretty short, which he appreciated even though cramped spaces didn't bother him much now that he spent a considerable portion of his waking hours strapped into a cockpit. 

When the cab pulled to stop in front of the Dubliner, Logan handed over enough to cover the fare and a 30% tip, then climbed out. 

The pub was reasonably full, considering it was 6:45 on a random Tuesday. Logan paused inside the door to let his eyes adjust. There was some not-terribly-loud music, plus TVs lining the walls tuned to a Mariners pregame show. At least if this went as badly as he half-expected, they could always just watch the game. 

They'd never really been friends, he and Wallace, though he'd always liked him. Eventually Veronica had told Logan some of what she'd been through after Lilly, and after Shelly Pomeroy's party, and Wallace featured heavily in a lot of stories that started “I would've been all done if it weren't for...” So maybe they'd never been friends, he and Wallace, but Logan would always, always be grateful for what he'd done to get Veronica through high school.

Logan spotted Wallace at a table close to the back and made his way over. “Wallace.”

Grinning, Wallace lifted his beer bottle in a quick greeting. “Hey.”

Logan slid into the booth, noticing Wallace's dark green henley. He straightened neckline of his shirt as if it were a bowtie. “It's like we're twins.”

Wallace laughed. “Yeah, I can see how people would get us mixed up.” 

A waitress appeared -- a petite blonde, of course, because Veronica wasn't already pushing her way into _all_ of Logan's thoughts -– and he asked for a beer and a menu. “First dates are always so nerve-wracking.” He said, cupping his chin in one hand, elbow on the table so he could waggle his eyebrows at Wallace. “You should know up front I strictly adhere to the third-date rule.”

“Maybe you really _haven't_ changed,” Wallace said, snickering. 

He was joking, of course, but the comment cut Logan. Ah, those old wounds. Never quite as healed as you think they are. He sat back and made sure to keep his tone lighthearted. “Maybe not.”

Wallace studied him for a moment, and Logan figured he hadn't covered his reaction as well as he'd intended. “The Navy, huh?” Wallace asked. “So how'd that happen?”

Safer ground, at least on the surface. Logan began to answer, then paused to thank the waitress and take a sip of his beer. “Here's the thing about being an adrenaline junky -– at some point, fast cars and brawling and surfing just don't do it for you anymore.”

“And,” Wallace guessed, “something like extreme skiing or sky-diving wasn't interesting enough for you?”

Logan grinned. “Well, there is a _little_ bit of sky-diving when you're learning to fly planes. Though to be fair it's less a cool day of craziness with your friends and more the Navy forcibly throwing you out of a cargo plane.”

“Sounds fun.” Wallace was watching him, and unfortunately for Logan, it seemed like Wallace understood at least some of what Logan wasn't saying. “But still pretty hard core. I mean, I could barely make it through basketball camp. Lot of rules, gotta be certain places at certain times.” Wallace tapped two fingers on the table, glanced over at one of the TVs. “Guess the Navy and you just seem like kind of an odd fit.”

Logan turned his attention to his beer, idly picking at the label with his thumbnail. “Growing up without boundaries makes it really hard to figure out where the lines are supposed to be.” He stopped, not sure how to explain it without dragging his issues out and laying them out on the table for Wallace to examine in excruciating detail. Honestly, he'd rather get pushed out of another cargo plane. _Without_ a parachute. “The Navy made it pretty simple.”

“Most guys would probably enjoy living without boundaries,” Wallace answered slowly, “especially if that life is fully funded.”

Fully funded. Logan blew out an irritated breath, feeling tension pulling at his shoulders. “My parents were rich, for sure, but they weren't wealthy. And as it turns out, keeping your mistresses in fancy jewelry and designer dresses can make a dent even if you're getting 8 figures for the latest shitty action movie.” Logan tried to dial back the bitterness in his voice. “And, of course, Daddy Dearest spent quite a lot of money to beat that murder rap.” It didn't matter how many years passed, the betrayal by his girlfriend and his father, compounded by his father _killing_ Lilly -– that old black magic anger bloomed in his gut. 

No need to fall back into that bottomless pit. It was the unreconstructed rage of an eight-year-old, wondering why his dad didn't love him. Totally unreasonable, and unable to be conquered with logic and perspective and maturity. Logan inhaled slowly, took a swig of beer. “And we settled the wrongful death suit.”

Wallace seemed surprised. “Wait. The Kanes sued your father?”

“I guess technically they sued his estate,” Logan answered, fighting the urge to roll his shoulders. It had been years, he should be able to talk about his father without reacting so badly.

“Still.” Wallace made a face, clearly unimpressed. “Ain't like they need the money.”

Logan shrugged. True, but kind of beside the point. “I think they just wanted some kind of verdict, after the acquittal.” His lips pursed, that word still bitter on his lips. “That foundation they started? A lot of it was underwritten by the settlement.” Logan had been more than happy to do _something_ to try to make up for the unforgivable sins his father, and at 19, large amounts of cash was the only solution that occurred to him. That was before Logan understood that there were other ways to solve problems. “I didn't really want his money, anyway,” Logan admitted. He didn't really talk about this, and he wasn't sure why he'd chosen tonight to start. Apparently seeing Wallace brought all the _sturm und drang_ of Neptune back into focus. “I mean, I wanted _money_ because I was an entitled shithead, but I also hated my father and it burned me to rely on him. Even after he was dead.”

Nodding slowly, Wallace said, “I get that. Makes sense.” He looked a little uncomfortable with the topic, and Logan decided they should stay away from the darker subjects.

The Veronica-ish waitress arrived, and Logan felt his stomach clench. He can handle a 3G wingover with no problem, but some petite blonde with mannerisms that only sort of reminded him of a woman he'd loved a million years ago and he was a wreck. Pathetic. He cleared his throat and ordered a burger. 

Once she left, Logan gave an exaggerated shrug. “Well, you know me –- I don't do things halfway.”

“So you joined up.”

“Yup.” Logan was relieved the conversation had moved back onto less psychologically traumatic ground. “Ladies _love_ fighter pilots.”

“Speaking of which. Wallace tilted his head. “Divot?”

Logan laughed, relaxing. “It's a pretty good story, actually.”

* * * * * 

The night so far had been pretty amiable, Wallace thought. Logan seemed genuinely interested in what Wallace had been up to, and of course he had a ton of Navy stories to share, most of them amusing. He also indulged Wallace's weird questions about how the Growler handled –- but, really, getting to talk in depth to a pilot with so many hours in the plane he'd helped design was an opportunity he couldn't just ignore. 

Logan hadn't mentioned the combat flights in Libya, and Wallace wouldn't consider asking. The Growlers were intended as air support, not attack planes, but Wallace figured that distinction probably didn't make it any less terrifying to fly directly towards surface-to-air missile positions. The Logan who attacked guys with connections to the mob had been reckless; the Logan who flew sorties into Libya, well, Wallace would probably have to describe that as brave. Not that Wallace would ever actually _tell_ him that, because it was clear that one thing about Logan remained unchanged in the intervening years: his ego.

With good reason, maybe – Wallace was pretty sure that fine brunette near the bar was trying to convince her friend with the skeptical look to come over and introduce themselves. He remembered how much it used to irritate Veronica, the way woman reacted to Logan. 

Their burgers were long gone, and they were three beers into the evening before Logan cracked.

“So,” Logan said in a rush, “how is Veronica?” He sounded almost sheepish.

Wallace grinned and checked his watch. “Almost made it an hour and a half,” he commented. “I'm impressed.” If he didn't know better, he'd think Logan was actually blushing. 

Shrugging one shoulder, and looking a lot more like the teenager Wallace remembered and mostly disliked, Logan admitted, “I was trying to let the conversation get there on its own.”

Wallace took pity on him. “She's good.” 

“Yeah?”

Wallace was pretty sure Veronica would be uncomfortable if he went into much detail, so he stuck to the basics. “She's in New York these days.”

Logan blinked, weighing that answer. “New York, huh? FBI?”

“Nah,” Wallace answered. “They tried to recruit her out of law school, but--”

“ _Law_ school?” Logan interrupted. “Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah,” Wallace confirmed. “Veronica is a second year associate at Gage Whitney.” Off of Logan's blank look, Wallace explained, “Some big-ass firm in the city. Six figures, prestige, perks, all of that.”

Logan nodded, tracing the condensation on their table with one finger. “Why--”

“Hi! Sorry to interrupt.” The brunette who'd been watching them from the bar stood at the edge of their table, and she didn't sound particularly sorry. Her friend hung back a little, looking pretty uncomfortable. 

“Hi,” Logan answered, cordial. He seemed mostly indifferent to the brunette, despite her obvious interest. And her obvious _assets_ , which she was doing her best to showcase.

“I'm Emily.” Emily glanced at Wallace, but turned her attention back to Logan almost immediately. “This is my friend, Sue.” 

“Hi, Sue,” Wallace offered, and Sue gave him an embarrassed half-wave, still not moving any closer to the table. She looked pretty miserable.

Emily leaned one hand on the edge of the table, conveniently providing the men with a better angle to admire her impressive cleavage. “Sue and I were wondering if you wanted to join us for a drink?”

Wallace wasn't terribly interested, but since she clearly had eyes for Logan, he figured he'd let Logan figure it out. He sat back and prepared for the show.

“Would you look at this?” Logan lifted his beer, his lips quirking. “We already have drinks.”

Emily flushed a bit, and Sue stepped closer. “Got it, sorry.” She grabbed Emily's arm and gave it a tug.

But Emily didn't appear ready to give up. “Okay,” she said, reaching forward to tap Logan's half-empty bottle. “So finish that up and come join us.”

“Em,” Sue muttered, attempting to pull her friend away from the table.

Logan glanced over at him, but Wallace simply lifted his eyebrows and looked right back at him. Let him use that fabled charm to convince these ladies to step off. Or get their numbers, or whatever.

“Thanks,” Logan said. “Very kind. My friend and I are catching up on old times, but maybe when we're done--”

“ _Definitely_ when you're done,” Emily interrupted. “Talk to you in a little bit, Logan.”

Logan's expression hardened, but he simply nodded as the two women withdrew. 

Wallace gestured after them. “Don't let me stop you.” 

“Not interested in providing random women with _I fucked Aaron Echolls' son_ stories, thanks,” Logan answered, anger creeping into his tone.

Wallace bit back a skeptical comment, because he wouldn't expect that kind of self-awareness or restraint from 19-year-old Logan, but it seemed like 26-year-old Logan had his head on straighter. He lifted his hands. “Okay.”

Logan seemed bothered still, turning his attention to the Mariners game. Wallace glanced up at the TVs –- they were losing to the Red Sox. Of course, 'cause King Felix wasn't pitching. 

“I really thought she'd end up at the FBI.”

It wasn't a question, strictly speaking, but Wallace considered how to answer. Veronica had never really explained her reasons, but it hadn't escaped his notice that her interest cooled right around the same time that she learned how detailed the background check would be. Wallace was a smart guy, and he was pretty sure that her resistance had something to do with Duncan Kane and his daughter. He'd never known Duncan very well, but he hadn't struck Wallace as someone who could've masterminded that kind of plan.

“I'm not sure,” Wallace said slowly. There was no way in hell he'd share his suspicions with Logan. Instead he grinned and said, “Probably the 17-week bootcamp.” Wallace was pretty sure that's what Veronica would _approvingly_ call a true non-responsive answer.

Logan gave a genuine smile. “Pssshh, try Office Candidate School.”

The phone in Wallace's pocket vibrated, and he shifted to the side to dig it out. Veronica's face smiled up at him, and he froze, his gaze shifting to Logan. “Uh...”

Logan's mouth dropped open. “No way.”

Turning the phone so Logan could see the display, Wallace said, “Yup.” Logan swallowed hard, staring intently at her picture displayed on the phone until Wallace turned it back around. He hit the green button. “Veronica Mars!” he greeted.

“So fighter jets, huh?” she chirped. “Are these the planes you guys worked on?”

Wallace tried to ignore the way Logan leaned forward, probably trying to hear her voice. “Yeah. The squadron came by to see the factory. It was pretty cool.”

“Did they do tricks for you?” she asked. “I know how you love a good diamond formation.”

Wallace didn't really know how to have a conversation with her when her ex-boyfriend was clearly desperate to eavesdrop. “They're combat pilots, Veronica, not the Blue Angels.”

Logan actually looked a little offended at that. “I can do better Immelmann rolls than those showboats,” he muttered.

“Sadface,” Veronica answered. “Listen, I'm off to Barclays –- snag me a hot fighter pilot and maybe I'll get you a t-shirt.”

“That doesn't seem like a fair trade,” Wallace answered. She laughed, and he felt a little guilty that he wasn't telling her about Logan. “Look, can I call you back later?”

“Well,” she answered, playing at being disappointed, “there'll be all the basketball I'll be watching. Allen Iverson might be a more interesting conversationalist, but I suppose you can try.”

He chuckled and said, “Later, Supafly.”

“Later, 'gator!” she answered. 

Wallace ended the call and put his phone on the table. 

Logan stared at it for a long moment. “I can't believe...” He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face.

Uncomfortable, Wallace took a sip of beer to buy some time. “I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to say now.”

Nodding, Logan said, “Yeah, me, neither.” His hands were tense on the table. “She's good, though? Happy?”

“Yeah.” Wallace watched Logan, wondering if this was just curiosity, or if he was really _still_ hung up on her. As far as Wallace knew, they hadn't seen each other in _years_ \- how could he still be pining for Veronica? But he didn't know how else to interpret the way Logan had reacted to her call. 

Wallace _definitely_ needed to talk to Veronica.

Logan flattened his palms against the table, straightened his spine, and said. “Good. That's good.” He looked around the bar for a few moments, then lifted the bottle to his mouth to drain the rest of his beer. “I should really get back. We're up at 0700.”

Surprised, Wallace leaned back and watched Logan. Apparently he wasn't going to pry for more details about Veronica. Which was a damn relief, but also kind of unbelievable. One second he looked like he wanted to rip Wallace's phone away and answer it himself, and then didn't he even ask for more information? Wallace probably shouldn't be offended on Veronica's behalf, but... he kind of was. “Yeah, okay.”

Logan dropped a $50 on the table. “It was good to catch up, Wallace, and only a little strange.” Logan stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“Yeah.” Wallace added $40 to the pile and stood. “This was... unexpectedly kinda fun.” 

Logan smiled. “Yeah.” He shifted his weight, offered his hand. “Thanks for building me a kickass plane.”

Wallace shook his hand, smiling. “No problem.”

“Okay.” Logan gave a nod and turned to leave, then hesitated. He turned back, but didn't quite meet Wallace's gaze. “Are you--” He stopped, cleared his throat. “Are you going to tell Veronica you saw me?”

Ah. Here it comes. “Probably,” Wallace answered honestly. “She's my friend. Did you expect me to keep it a secret?”

“No,” Logan answered quickly. “No, I just--” He blew out a breath, the most unsure of himself he'd seemed since Wallace saw him on the flightline. “If she asks, you have my number.” He faced Wallace fully. “ _Only_ if she asks. Okay?”

Wallace considered his request, weighed the crazy drama that Veronica and Logan used to bring to each other against the man he'd gotten to know the littlest bit tonight. “Yeah,” he decided. “Okay. Only if she asks.”

Logan relaxed a bit, that familiar cockiness reappearing. He snapped off a salute. “Wallace.”

“Divot,” Wallace answered.

Logan laughed, and turned, keeping as far away from the bar – and Emily and Sue – as possible as he weaved through the crowd to the door. 

Wallace flagged down their waitress and handed over the cash, then headed toward the door. He pulled out his phone as he walked, glancing up to make sure not to walk into anyone, and pulled up the text program. He didn't really know what to write, how to even broach this topic. But it wouldn't really be fair to dump this kind of information via text message, so he typed something quickly, and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

 _V, give me a buzz later. You'll never believe the day I've had – easily 3,000 points_.

END

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: The real squadron of Growlers deployed over Libya were VAQ-132 (Scorpions), and they did visit and tour the Boeing manufacturing plant in St. Louis after their deployment. The rest of the details in the story are bent to my will.
> 
> STORIES IN THIS UNIVERSE:
> 
> Directional Stability
> 
>  
> 
> [Situational Awareness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1239151)
> 
>  
> 
> [Angle of Attack](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1305667)


End file.
